


ego

by malgeum



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, Overstimulation, POV Second Person, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, bottom emet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:26:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24929125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malgeum/pseuds/malgeum
Summary: He is not yours, and you do not want him to be — but this night is, and he will know it. By the thrill in his widening pupils, he already does.
Relationships: Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Reader, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 3
Kudos: 95





	ego

**Author's Note:**

> wow this was a lot of 4am fun
> 
> please don't pay attention to the technical parts of magic here, i'm a bad dps who still button-smashes in this game to survive and i just wanted to write about him getting railed :)
> 
> comments appreciated, tell me about your wol! <3

Emet-Selch is not a mortal man. He is an eclipse rippling with red, liquid power; a beam of unholy light tearing through the realm with an ineffable calm. A loud, boasting victory, underhanded and gut-wrenching, gold-rubbed and unfair. He is your biggest threat, and your most unwanted, begrudged ally in uncertain times, the world balanced on his fingertip like a wavering needle. He is a god and a demon. He is nothing and everything. 

He is leading you to your bedroom in this dark, smoky inn, perfumed with the spill of sour, wheaty spirits, herbal smoke, and the violets on the trees outside the sparse windows. 

“Come now,” he drawls like he enjoys the taste of the words, “I’ve kept you waiting long enough, haven’t I,  _ hero?” _

“I didn’t take you for the generous type,” you mutter, almost soundless in the thick, boisterous air of life around you, jobs and coin and the world forgotten for the night. This is the only decent place in town for food and rest, if that is what can be gotten somewhere so loud with laughter and libation. But lodging is lodging, and you are grateful for a bed instead of the cold hard ground or the dusty side of a chocobo steed. 

It isn’t like it matters. The flaring ochre of Emet-Selch’s immortal eyes, narrow and heavy over his shoulder, tell you there won’t be much sleep to be had regardless. 

You watch his back as you follow him down the dim hall, the ridiculous weight of his coats and furs and skirts rustling with each step. How warm he must be, especially in the stuffy atmosphere of this town and this inn. How warm the skin underneath must be — deathly pale flesh, unnaturally unmarred, begging to be given a flush of humanity or the teeth of a fight. You anticipate one, tonight. A fight. After all, these opportunities are frequent but few, and always wrought with just enough loathing to make it hurt well. 

You make it to the end of the hall, following Emet-Selch into the dark room as he opens its door. And then you close it behind you, punctuating the way you push the rest of the inn out with it, reminding him and your twitching hands just how alone you are, now. 

“Well?” he says presumptuously, lifting an arm with gloved fingers gracefully extended. You are supposed to undress him, apparently, like some kind of simpering servant boy. You always do, though. It is exactly this slow dance that moves you both, a methodical waltz to the climax of things. And so, you step forward in the weak dark to take that palm in yours, using the fingers of your other hand to pull the smooth white glove from his. What waits for you is smoother skin, warmth, black-lacquered fingernails you gift a soft brush of lips. 

No reverence, despite the way he looks down his sharp nose upon you, hair shadowing the beautiful, eerie light of his eyes. It is never reverence — only desire, a prelude to firmer presses and harder scratches, the memory of the way those nails have opened your skin before. Perhaps a little reverence, then, but at the feeling. Not for the one who created it. 

Next goes that heavy coat, the fur matted and dirty from days of traveling. The heavy slunk of its fabric as it sinks to the floor. You kick it unceremoniously out of the way, much to the disdain you knew the action would garner. Good. 

Piece by piece you work, ridding Emet-Selch of what covers him until nothing is left, until your breath is becoming thinner at the thought of what is to come from this. He finally sits on the bed, legs crossed, brow raised to say  _ get on with it.  _ A thorough man, but not a patient one. Not a man at all, at the end of the day. But still you carry on, unbuckling the straps of leather over your chest and arms, unhitching the weapon from your back with a clatter to the floor, unlacing the worn boots on your feet and taking the rest of your clothing off with them. And then there is nothing but the drag of eyes on your bruised and mottled skin, so different from his. The hunger in that gaze is unmistakable. It stokes something deep and wanting in the pit of your stomach. 

You waste no time straddling his lap, pushing him back against the firm woven mattress. He emits a breath that is forced out with the movement, and a haughty little laugh is not far behind it. His teeth show with his burgundy smirk. 

“You’re a little ruiner, aren’t you?” His hand skates down the dip at your sternum, the rift between the muscles there, the line of your abdomen and the trail of fine hair beneath it. “Blood on your hands, and blood in your cock.” 

He enunciates the word almost aggressively as he grips you. A groan leaves your nose and mouth at once, hot and gruff. You are already halfway hard, and the beginnings of his coaxings are stirring you with a miserable quickness. 

Emet-Selch is looking at you with smug, sparking eyes, sword to the stone, flinting and full of heat. Heat he thinks he is winning at as he stares up at you, nothing about your tall, broad frame  _ little;  _ the upward curve of his neck is proof enough. You have the sudden urge to wrap your hands around the column of his pale throat and squeeze, knowing still that it will gain you nothing on a man with no fear of death and no real means or intention to get there. 

His other hand, sure and strong, strokes along the knifed line of your hipbone before walking his fingers condescendingly around the curve of your side, the dip of your lower back and the rise of the muscles beneath it. His fingerpads find what they are looking for without another moment: your entrance, faintly throbbing already with anticipation. He only circles it for a minute, considering, studying. Waiting for you to become pliant beneath him, even if you will take him whole and ride him. Even if you are above him, he is in control.

You watch his teeth skim across his full lower lip. A flash courses up your spine. An urge seizes you completely. 

You take his exploring wrist in one hand, and circle his neck with the other. His eyes open just a little at the corners. 

_ “Mine,” _ you growl, leaning over him. He is not yours, and you do not want him to be — but this night is, and he will know it. By the thrill in his widening pupils, he already does. 

“Finally showing me your teeth, are you?” he laughs, watching as you lean and loom over him, palms to the bed. His breath changes when your thighs shift and your cocks slide against each other. “Ah,  _ that’s  _ it. We could start just like this, just the — ”

He yelps suddenly, not expecting you to flip him over, and certainly not with such brusqueness. You can see his shoulders crest and fall with breath, faster than usual, suppressed by the pillow. The wide muscles of his back move and clench, the skin hiding them deceptively soft. 

His rear shifts beneath you, hips lifting just barely to try and meet your lap. So quick to get the memo, always. So eager to have the upper hand. It almost makes you want to roll your eyes. But it also makes your cock twitch with want. 

“Will you take me, then? How  _ exciting.”  _ He moans the word so dramatically, full of breath, cheek to the pillow so you can really hear him, see the flush already rising to his face. “Go on. Fuck me. Don’t wait another second — this body is what I make it. You know that well enough.”

“Fine, then.” If that’s what he wants, he’ll get it. It’s been seconds, and yet you can’t wait any longer. You spit on your hand, making sure to sound disgustingly human as you do so, and coat your cock in its tackiness. There’s a little magic you infuse into it, too, because you aren’t  _ cruel.  _ And then you thumb his waiting hole open and slide yourself inside. 

Gods, he is tight, and he is  _ loud.  _ He clenches and flutters wildly around your cock, swallowing it inside himself with a song of breath and voice, hand wrenched in the old blanket he lays on. “Oh,  _ glorious,  _ yes.  _ Yes,  _ yes. Oh, it’s been so long. Fuck.”

You want to respond, but he feels so good, so brilliantly good. And you have a purpose here. You grind into him in hard, unrelenting circles and thrusts, driving him into the bed even when he meets your every move. His moans are chants against his shoulder, earring glinting sinister in the hot darkness of the room, hair falling over his closed eyes. 

He is smiling. You want to conquer it. 

You want to see him lose himself the way you have all the times before — not to return the favor, and not because he deserves to feel good, because he simply does not. But because you want the satisfaction of seeing him give in to the very edge of himself and fall off the other side. 

Your thrusts turn sharper, and you reach around to grab his hot, heavy cock, thickened and slick. Emet-Selch gasps, pleased, like you came to this point quicker than expected. Oh, how infuriating he is. And he must be doing something to speed this up. You feel yourself getting close already, the hot, almost raw friction of him too much to bear. 

“Nn — hurry and —  _ ahh —  _ finish inside me already. I miss that feeling of — utter debauchery —  _ ah!”  _ Ecstatic and high, his voice leaves him, and you feel him slicken even further over your hand, soft drips against the bed beneath you. Your wrist twists faster, your thumb traces the ridges and creases of his cock with the pressure of your thumbnail; you slide faster over him, hit faster into him until the wood creaks beneath you. And then, soon, you come, and so does he. Not together — you were first, losing yourself to a quick haze of white. Damn it. 

There is a moment where the two of you simply catch your breath. Spent, but not fully satisfied. That much is clear, even from the catlike smile Emet-Selch throws you over his shoulder; his eyebrows are angry and set. 

“Well, that was certainly faster than I expected.” He smooths a hand over the blanket, slow and deliberate. “How typical of you mortals. Too eager to hold out.”

“Might I remind you,” you say briskly as you pull out, dropping hold of his hips to let him slump into the seed he’d spilled all beneath him, “that you were the one who couldn’t seem to wait.”

“Mm.” He lays there for a moment, lazily, catlike still. You take the opportunity to climb off the mattress and find a rag for yourself. You also grab the vial of oil from your pack on the way back to the bed, towel discarded — no favors here. 

Emet-Selch is now lying on his back, basking in stretched, naked glory. His stomach, muscled and strong, glistens with his own spend. He owns every moment. His hair, light and dark, rests artfully disheveled against his forehead. His golden eyes trace your own figure, as naked but not as radiant with power, and fall to your hand.

“Oh? You must be feeling confident.” His gaze flicks down to your soft cock. 

“This is for you,” you tell him, sitting on the bed and twisting to lean over his face, and not giving him another option. You watch his throat bob ever so infinitesimally in response. “Mold yourself back into whatever we started with, and finger yourself open.”

An eyebrow arches at you, his mouth pulls down, but he snatches the vial anyway. “Agh. What a  _ pain.  _ But very well, hero. If it comforts you to know I could find pleasure tonight, even if it must be by my own hand...”

Torturously slow, and purposefully, he rubs oil over his painted nails, his long, lovely fingers. He seems to marvel at its sheen, contemplative. Then he turns on his side, facing away from you so you can see the exact moment his hand glides between the muscles of his ass, right down the divide to find his entrance. He jerks a bit, an erotic little noise unconsciously forming behind his lips — still sensitive. You watch him trace slowly around it, fingertips hidden but moving, hips pitching in small, erratic shocks as he leans into the feeling. 

Your own fingers find the side of his neck, the muscles tense from his current position. You brush the silken hair away from the skin and press your mouth there instead, smelling smoke and powder as you map it. 

“Ugh. Spare me the devotion.” You take his jaw in your hand, watching his eyes close in mild irritation. “You know it — ”

And then you kiss him fully, parted lips to open mouth. A weak groan lands on the tip of your tongue, sent right from the warmth of his mouth. This isn’t for the enjoyment of it, nor the intimacy — it is for the sheer fact that you know he thinks of this as a paltry pastime, a waste of energy that lends really nothing to the pleasure either of you is seeking. It feels good despite yourself. He seems to think so, too, the way he licks at your teeth, keeps groaning over your tongue. 

Now that you have his full attention, you let your hand travel the expanse of his body: neck and its moving ridges, the dip between hard collarbones, the smooth valley of his chest between its muscled planes, the divots of his carefully sculpted abdomen, all the way until you can grip the angle of his canting hips. You feel the small little thrusts back onto his hand; you sense how he tries to curve himself into your touch, trying to get you to circle his cock with your own hand once more. You keep him firmly on his side, though — this will be at the pace you command, and no one else’s. You can almost taste his resulting smirk, the needy little breath that comes along with it. 

You can hear the slight rustle of the bedsheets beneath Emet-Selch’s movements, can hear the wet slide of your kiss and its entanglement, can hear the wetter motion of his fingers sliding inside himself, in and out and in again. Slowly. Good. Your fingers trace the velvet skin at the juncture of his hip and thigh, teasingly close enough to his cock for him to jump at the touch. Good, good. 

He tries to override you by using his free hand to touch himself instead. Not good. 

You grasp his hand with a swift aggression, not listening to his short answering snarl, and choose to place it instead at the back of your neck, setting you both into a sort of backward embrace. Anything to make this more torturous for your frustrated counterpart. The huffed air from his nose is warm on yours. Perfect. 

You continue your gentle ministrations at his hip, the intricate kiss and its dance of tongues, heady and hot. Emet-Selch continues to try and fill himself proper. Soon enough, though, you sense it is not enough: he starts moving a little faster, tries to lay on his back even a little bit to feel things go deeper. 

“No,” you tell him, parting from the kiss, and he grips the hair at the back of your head in a fierce clench. “You have to tell me what you need.”

“What,” Emet-Selch pants, breath and voice roughened, “can’t figure it out yourself?” He half-scoffs, half-moans. “And you wonder why I don’t find you very bright.”

“Oh, it’s not that.” You kiss his neck again, licking the skin there for good measure. “I know exactly what you need. I only want to hear you beg for it.”

The scandalized noise that leaves him is muddled by his pleasure and his frustration at its lack of fullness. “I am calamity itself,  _ hero.  _ I do not  _ beg.” _

“Hmm.” Typical. “Then you’re satisfied with this? I’m content to watch you try.”

To no one’s surprise, he does try — after a good, long scowl at you, of course. He rocks back and forth in quick succession, not budging far due to the hand you keep dutifully at his hip. You do not kiss him again, and his stubbornness keeps him from trying to find your mouth. It is pleasant to watch his stiff cock wet without touch, watch him struggle for better, deeper, fuller friction. But even someone like him cannot find it alone. 

Eventually, he gives a reedy sigh, face halfway into his pillow. 

“Surely it wouldn’t kill you to touch me,” he groans, a fiery, stoking bite to his tone. You smile. 

“I suppose I could,” you answer. But you make no move to do so. He turns further into the pillow beneath his cheek. 

“You think you’re so clever, trying to have me say  _ please.”  _ A whine, low and steady, hums in his nose. “Touch me,  _ please,  _ then.”

“I suppose I could,” you say again, and this time you slide a loose hand around his cock. The vice-grip in your hair only tightens; he tilts his head back toward you and breathes a  _ yes. _

“Oh, little ruiner you are.” He ruts the hard heat of himself into your palm. “Trying to have me melt for you...mm.”

He is melting, just a bit. You lave slowly at his neck, and he leans away to give you further access. His hips cant in tiny circles, searching for that perfect press. His eyebrows pinch in the middle, right beneath the sinister mark on his forehead. You have his body between two hands, more pliant with each passing moment. 

You tighten your hand ever so slightly around him, enough to let him truly fuck into it; he keens at the sensation. “Oh, that’s nice. Yes.”

“Is it enough, though?” It is simply too easy to tease him. He moves to run his lips against your unmoving jaw. 

“Is anything ever enough for me, my dear?” And then he attempts to move toward your lap, his bent wrist with its fingers inside him searching for your stirring cock. 

“Not at all.”

You slip your free hand over his, slide a finger of yours between his own, past the obstacle of his own ministrations, and then you are inside him too, the tight heat and the press of his digits caging yours almost impossible to enter alongside. His whole back, every thick muscle in his perfectly molded body stiffens. He cries out. Yours is the third inside him. 

His rim flutters around you. You add another finger on the next push. 

“Ah!” His back arches, his hips chasing your touch on either side and somehow trying to hide from both, it seems. “Nn — oh, that’s it — ”

It almost is truly it. His cock grows immensely slicker in your hand. His center of gravity is his struggling hips. You feel how he contracts around you, walls doing what they can to stretch and accommodate and seek the fill you provide, finally scratching that climactic itch. 

Emet-Selch hums throatily. You can tell he is extremely close. 

You still your hands. 

His hum turns to a confused whimper. The inertia of his movements keep him going, but without your help, it is not enough. His whimper turns to a gruff scrape of breath. 

“How I loathe you,” he growls, “you insufferable fool!”

You lick at his neck and its increasing humidity, smelling the dampened nape of his neck where you’ve been breathing into it. He releases your hair to smack you weakly on the side of the head. He sulks relentlessly, chasing your touch as you pull out and away. 

“Get that filthy mouth off me. If you won’t finish this silly little game, then I’ll do so myself.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” you breathe into his ear, watching his cock twitch wildly and feeling your own respond in turn. Your hand hovers in front of him, palm expectantly upward. “Oil.”

He chances a look at you, sulking still. But he obliges, pouring oil onto his own fingers, letting it drip from his black nails down onto your waiting fingertips. 

Oh, it feels good to touch yourself, especially with the warm slickness of the oil to ease things up. It feels even better to see how Emet-Selch’s shoulder blades converge in anticipation, the way his free hand grips the sheet beside him. You can see how rosebud-pink the skin of his rear has become from your combined efforts. You ache to be inside him. 

Nothing is said as you take his outer knee with your oiled hand, lifting it to give you room to press in closer and guide yourself to his entrance. He gasps when you make contact, satisfied and nearly smug again despite his tantrum. You press yourself inside, a low noise forming in your throat. You see his cock jump, his nipples hardened and perfect on his breath-swelled chest. 

“All the way,” he breathes, eyes closed and pinched with pleasure, mouth parted. “Don’t stop now.”

You do go all the way, sheathing yourself until your front meets his back, skin to skin. He is hot and still tight, deliciously so — how you’d  _ love  _ to take things slow, but how could you resist — you begin thrusting into him, chasing that mounting warmth deep in the core of you. And how perfectly he responds, needing and close. Each slick slide, each slap of skin between you has him moaning, louder and louder as you both climb toward your climax. His cock bounces before him, untouched, dripping with new heat. 

He was close already, though, so it isn’t long before he comes in a thick shot, his spend landing on his stomach, chest, the bed all over again. He comes without warning, and rides it out in a huge, dramatic flourish, breaths at a high pitch and voice in a vast shout. He is so tight around you that your pulse thrums tangibly throughout your entire pelvis. 

“Come inside me,” he whines, breathless and slurring, his hand coming back up to grip at your hair. His words land moist and hot on your mouth. “Claim what you —  _ mmh _ — so clearly wanted.”

You were not quite close, however, and you do not take the offered initiative to speed up. You take your time, mounting your pleasure at the same pace as before, feeling his walls begin to relax around you after some moments. Deeper and deeper you hit, fucking into him until he begins to hiss, the first threads of overstimulation raveling once more. 

“Is this — really — ” A hard yelp leaves him when you change your angle to hit impossibly more fully inside. Untouched still, curved and solid still, his cock begins to leak again, halfheartedly now. “You —  _ ahh — !” _

The sound is so panicked with thrill, so genuinely mortal, you can’t help but feel it shoot deep in your gut. It is helplessly erotic. He is practically clambering away from you in one moment, clawing against the bed; in the next he is stuttering against you, pulling your hair and licking at your chin with a loose, open mouth. He pants quickly through his nose. 

“You still want me to come inside you?” you whisper, too close to the edge now to force it. He nods against you, lips wet on the skin of your cheek. “Say it.”

“I want it,” he croaks, a mild scrape of teeth against you. “So give it.”

As much as you would like to keep this up, it is fruitless to try. He is weak for you. Weak from what you’ve done. That is all you wanted. It provides you liberty to give your thrusts a shallower life, faster and sharper, let heat fill you and surround you. 

You come in a white lightning flash, clear and potent — ecstasy curls around you like it wants something from you. You feel just how much you have fulfilled the agreement with Emet-Selch: you spill inside him deep and plenty, enough to keep you from staying fully inside him as you ride out your own orgasm. 

When you come to, he is twitching before you, and just barely beneath you. His large, pale body folds inward. It seeks protection from too much sensation. And — 

“You finished  _ again?”  _ There it is, unmistakably dribbling from his cock like a drying faucet. How you  _ grin  _ at the sight. The smugness is all yours — Emet-Selch’s face contorts in displeasure, but he otherwise seems to have no capability of control within his body for the moment. He is still moving as if being entered. When he realizes you noticing this, he turns onto his stomach, hiding himself from view; it forces you to pull out.

“This body is — what I make it. This was my own choice,” he argues, though it sounds less threatening and more petulant, especially cottoned by the pillow he takes refuge in. You smile even wider. “I can  _ hear  _ you grinning, you...you dim-witted...imbecile. Don’t think you’ve won this time.”

_ Oh,  _ you think, sated and catching your breath as you fall into the pillow beside him.  _ But I have.  _

When the two of you sleep that night, naked and filthy beside each other, it is only because there is one bed in the room. Perhaps he will tell you that your supposed victory has allowed you the comfort. Perhaps he will blame it on your unskilled technique, the way his attempt at a mortal body aches and is rendered immobile by your impatience. 

Only you will remember the way he sleeps with one arm pressed against you, breath deceptively warm on your shoulder, like he can’t get enough even in slumber. And only you will know that with this, and with the loveless touches you offer him in waking and in sleep, you’ve well and truly won.


End file.
